


Come in From the Cold

by spacehopper



Series: TMA October Prompt Fics [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Cock Warming, Anal Sex, Cock Rings, Cock Warming, Cuddlefucking, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Magical Hypothermia, Mildly Dubious Consent, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Martin hasn't been able to get warm since Jon rescued him from the Lonely; Jon finds an unconventional solution.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA October Prompt Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954891
Comments: 3
Kudos: 119





	Come in From the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly dubious consent is for Martin's supernaturally compromised state at the beginning, which turns to full consent when he's better.
> 
> Written for Day 19 of Kinktober: Cockwarming.

It was probably for the best, that Jon had left. After all, he’d tried to fix Martin, tried to save him. But it hadn’t worked. All the hot showers, the blankets, the heavy wool jumpers that had cost too much, but Jon had insisted. Even with Jon wrapped around him, it had only helped a little. Only made Martin just warm enough to appreciate exactly how cold he was.

And now Jon was gone, and Martin was alone again.

He blinked at the mirror propped up against the wall, noticing the blankets had shifted, that his feet had slipped out. Something he should probably fix, but his feet weren’t cold anymore. Or well, at least they didn’t feel cold, because they didn’t feel anything. Maybe that was why Jon had left, because he’d realized Martin hadn’t really needed him. Though he’d said something, hadn’t he? The post, a package, supposed to be here by now. Probably another statement.

Distantly, Martin heard the door slam shut, and the thud of footsteps on the uneven floorboards. He wondered if Jon would still bother to read the statement in another room, or if Martin wasn’t real enough anymore to be worth the bother. Why leave the room, when the room was already empty, after all? And sure enough, there Jon was, framed in the doorway that the mirror reflected.

“Oh God, I hope I’m not too late.”

The room wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t exactly bright either, lit by one small window covered by a white curtain. Enough light for Martin to see Jon set something on the end table, but not enough for him to figure out what it could be. Well, except a package. Seemed rather big for a statement, but he supposed it could be a _lot_ of statements.

“Martin, can you hear me?” Jon rested a hand on his shoulder, giving him a light shake. Or well, that’s what it looked like at least, because Martin couldn’t really feel that either. Which was a bad sign, wasn’t it? That had to be bad. But that concern seemed as far away as Jon’s voice.

“Fuck,” Jon said softly, turning back to his package and tearing open the box. “This better work.”

He pulled out a small bottle, and a hunk of fabric. How odd, but then maybe Jon was catching a cold, and he needed to blow his nose. And the bottle—well, it hardly mattered. As long as Jon had what he wanted.

“Martin, can you hear me? I don’t—” His voice caught, and Martin’s fingers twitched. If he could move, he thought he’d like to reach out, to take Jon’s hand and ask when what was wrong. But that wasn’t what Martin was, because to do that, he’d have to be here. And anyway, he’d only make Jon cold if he touched him. Best to stay where he was.

“I don’t want to do this, not like this. But I don’t know what else to do, and he swears it’ll work. And Christ, I don’t want to take his advice, you know that but…but it feels right. I know—I _know_ —that it should work.” Jon reached out to run a light hand over Martin’s hair, letting it rest there. “You trust me, right? You’ll tell me if anything is wrong, if you want to me stop?”

His hand remained there. Martin didn’t understand why, when he could feel Jon trembling. It couldn’t be pleasant, could it? But oh, he was waiting for a response, wasn’t he? Always with his questions, Jon. Well, Martin could manage that. For Jon, he could answer just this one thing.

He shifted his head, tilted it up, then down again. Repeating the motion a bit quicker, though that small movement made his chest clench with the effort, black spots appearing across his vision. Jon seemed to understand though, lifting his hand and taking a shaky breath as he reached for the wad of cloth, unfolding it carefully.

Inside was—a ring? But not one for fingers, far too large for that. In the poor light, Martin couldn’t quite tell what it was made of, but it seemed to be rigid for the way Jon held it, stroking his fingers along the rim.

“I suppose this isn’t the maddest thing I’ve done,” Jon said, more to himself than Martin. Clearly he’d started to understand. His eyes drifted over Martin’s huddled form, and his shoulders straightened. “Whatever it does, it’s worth the risk.”

To Martin’s mild surprise, Jon set the ring aside, and started stripping. But then, Martin supposed he wasn’t as cold, or maybe not cold at all. Though he should probably put his clothes back on if he planned on using the bed, or maybe get rid of Martin. It couldn’t be pleasant, after all. And surely by now he knew it was pointless.

But he didn’t get rid of Martin, and he didn’t leave. Instead he picked up the ring again, regarding to dubiously, then taking a shaky breath, and bringing it towards his cock. He hissed—was it the cold?—as he carefully fed his flaccid cock through it, and then hissed again as his cock suddenly started to fill, or was filled, or perhaps simply constrained. Forced into an erection that seemed unlikely to be natural.

“Ah—” Jon put on knee on the bed, teeth digging into his lip while his fingers dug into his thigh. “That’s a bit more intense than I expected. Christ, I really hope this comes off.” He took a deep breath, then crawled fully onto the bed, reaching for the bottle now, and then the edge of the blankets.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, pulling the blankets off Martin. “I wish we could talk, I wish—” He pressed his lips together, and opened the bottle, squirting something onto his hand. “It doesn’t matter what we want, does it? I’m not losing you again. I’m not losing you to _him._

 _He’s dead,_ Martin wanted to say. _You’ve already killed him._ All that was left was Martin, and well, maybe there wasn’t enough of him. But he couldn’t find the words to tell Jon, could only stare into the mirror and watch as Jon did something behind his back, light touches on his arse. Or maybe that was just Martin’s imagination.

“Can you even feel this?” Jon said.

Could he? Martin tried to focus, and found that if he did, he could feel what had to be Jon, had to be his fingers pressing against Martin’s hole. Was he trying to find the cold inside Martin? Trying to pull it out? But no, that was silly. There wasn’t anything inside him to find. Martin had emptied himself out.

Still, he supposed Jon liked thorough research. So if he wanted to sample Martin, to stretch his hold with frantic, clumsy motions, squirting more liquid onto his hands and pushing deeper inside, then Martin was happy to let him. It didn’t really matter, did it? Certainly not to Martin, not anymore.

Even thinking that, though, he somehow still felt a bit sad when Jon pulled his fingers free and turned his attentions to slicking up his own cock, biting back moans and gasps as he did. It was nice, not being empty for once. If he could speak, he might even ask Jon to do that again. Only if he wanted to, of course.

“I hope this doesn’t hurt, or well—” Jon stared into the mirror for a moment, meeting Martin’s eyes, before lying down beside him. “I hope even if it does, it’s the right kind of hurt.” Jon pulled the blankets over them both, his motions now concealed by them, though Martin could just about feel him shifting closer. But it was so much feeling, the small prickle of breath on his bare skin and the brush of Jon’s hair, that he couldn’t quite process it all. Didn’t know what to focus on, until he felt something truly _hot_ pushing against his hole.

The noise he made was as much a shock to him as it clearly was to Jon, the sudden return of true sensation drawing a ragged whimper from his lips. He could hear Jon shhing him, stopping for a second to rub smoothing circles on his arse and he could feel it, feel it when Jon stopped and continued to guide his terribly hot cock into Martin, deeper and deeper and it was too much, burning him and, and—

“Don’t stop.”

The words were barely above a whisper, but Jon clearly heard them, murmuring agreement into Martin’s neck as he bottomed out inside him. It didn’t normally feel like this, not that he’d had tons of experience, not that he’d had any with Jon, but still, still. Enough to know that it wasn’t supposed to be like this, this searing feeling of being, of being known and watched and seen, anchored hard inside him.

And Jon was staying there, shifting to pull Martin flush against him, running a hand down his chest. A hand Martin _felt_ nails digging into his skin, pushing warmth back into him even as he struggled for breath. Struggled to comprehend what was happening, the sensation suffusing him. This wasn’t normal, but it was closer to something Martin wanted than anything he’d felt in—how long had it been? How long since Jon had torn him from that misty seaside? The one he’d never truly left.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he let them flow, dampening the pillow as he lifted a shaky hand to cover Jon’s, holding it on his chest. Relishing the fact he’d chosen to do that, to touch Jon, and that he’d done it because he wanted to feel, wanted to be here, held and real and present.

Not alone at all.

“Jon, what did you do?” He stroked his fingers over the back of Jon’s hand, and felt him tremble, his hips stuttering slightly and shifting his cock inside Martin. Their moans intermingled, and it was the most beautiful, wonderful sound Martin had ever heard. One he’d love to hear again.

But when he tried to move, to push back into Jon or pull away, or anything to increase that heat between them, Jon pulled his hand from Martin’s. Going suddenly to his hip, and holding him there with a surprisingly strong grip.

“No, I—” Jon was panting, and buried his face briefly in Martin’s back, before continuing. “It’s a bit overwhelming, and this needs to last as long as possible. So I need you to—to not move? Please.”

“Seriously?” Martin wanted to shift, to turn around and give Jon the incredulous look this entire thing clearly deserved. His mind ran back over the events he’d observed but failed to register as truly significant. The package, the—yes, it had to be—the _cock ring_ that absolutely couldn’t be anything natural. “Jon, please tell me that thing didn’t come from Artefact Storage.”

“Not exactly?” Jon said. “It might be something that could end up there, and I wouldn’t suggest you try it but it—it shouldn’t hurt me. Probably. At least not permanently.”

“That’s really not as reassuring as you think,” Martin said. And it wasn’t, but despite it all, he found he was smiling. That his chest was starting to shake, and it wasn’t tears. It might even be laughter, and there it was, the sound falling startled from his lips as Jon shifted again to wrap his arm back around Martin’s chest. “But I suppose it’s very you, isn’t it?”

“I—” Jon smiled into the back of his neck. “I suppose it is.”

Another slight shift, and a gasp from Jon as his cock slid slightly out. Before it could slip free further, Martin pushed back into him, the stretch still burning a bit—and he really didn’t want to think too hard about why—but exactly what he needed.

“This is fine, right? I wanted to ask, but you—you weren’t responding, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Martin took the hand on his chest, weaving their fingers together as he brought it to his lips.

“As far as spooky artefacts go, it’s not too bad. Not—” He felt his cheeks warm, and how novel was that? To know that they could warm, that he could manage something simple as embarrassment. “Not bad at all, honestly. If somewhat unexpected.”

“Good,” Jon said, pressing a kiss into the back of his neck. “I—” He sucked in a breath, then just said, “Good.”

And it was _good_. Like settling into a hot bath after an afternoon slogging through the dirty slush of a January snowstorm, when the wet had seeped through a hole in the heel of his boot and turned his foot to ice. That sharp, stinging hurt, driving needles into his skin, making him gasp and squirm even though he didn’t want to leave the warmth.

Jon’s hand trickled across his chest, lingering through some instinct—or knowledge—over one of Martin’s nipples, circling it lightly until it puckered and flooded with sensation. Then Jon actually _pinched_ him, sending Martin jerking back into him and drawing a gasp from Jon’s lips, before his hand moved back down to clamp around Martin’s hip.

“You know, it’d be easier not to move if you didn’t do that.” Not that he really wanted Jon to stop, not that he was going to tell Jon to stop, as his hand slid down to join of Martin’s leg, tantalizingly close to his cock, leaving prickles in its wake.

Or well, Martin thought it was close to his cock, could sense that it must be there, somehow still limp against his leg even though every time Jon shifted, indistinct heat seemed to course through his body. But without direction, because he was still so cold, so in need of everything, little as it was, that the small infusion dissipated quickly. Left waiting and slowly warming. Unless Jon directed the flow.

“Martin,” Jon said, nuzzling his ear, fingers digging into his thigh, “what do you want?”

“I—” He swallowed hard, feeling Jon shift, his other arm working its way under Martin’s neck, straining until Jon’s fingers found his throat. There he began to stoke a soft line down it, and Martin swallowed again, the burn running through him like whisky. Which he supposed was appropriate, given where they were. “I want you to touch me. If that’s okay, I mean. I’m not quite sure I’ll manage to stay still if you do?”

“I know you can, Martin.” Jon’s voice was low and smooth like honey. Maybe whisky had been the wrong thing to think of, because as Jon continued to stroke his throat, the sweet slide of his touch began to feel far more like mead. Going down easy and slow, leaving Martin boneless under Jon’s touch. “If you try, you can do it. Be good for me.”

“Really?” Martin couldn’t help it, even as he felt his heart speed up.

“I thought…well, I thought you might like it? There were some books in your desk, and I thought maybe.” He coughed. “Right, that was a stupid thought, wasn’t it?”

Martin laughed, and laughed again for the sheer joy of it, the knowledge that he was amused, that it was _funny_. That he remembered what funny felt like, until the sound shifted into a moan when Jon adjusted his position, cock sending a line of heat shooting through him.

“Ah—sorry, sorry. It’s sweet, and no, you did a wonderful job. I do like it. I was just surprised?” His teeth dug into his lip when Jon lifted his head, meeting Martin’s eyes in the mirror. He looked—he looked worried. And he looked—it hurt to name it, that small, sputtering hope. But that was important too.

It looked like love.

“I’ll be good,” Martin said, before he could feel too ridiculous. “I swear, I won’t move too much. I—I wouldn’t want to. I want you in me. Forever.” His cheeks felt like they were on fire, but he welcomed it, and refused to break eye contact with Jon. Until he couldn’t bear it anymore, and turned his head at an awkward angle, reaching up to grab Jon’s hair and pull him into a messy kiss.

“I—I really hope it’s not forever. I mean, not that I don’t lo—” He took a shuddering breath, head dropping back to the pillow. “I love you. This might be the worst time to say it, given we’re rather more—connected—than usual. But I do.” He cleared his throat, then kissed the back of Martin’s neck. “But I’m still not sure staying like this forever is advisable.”

“That’s…is that a possibility?” Martin’s voice went high. Some deep, animal part of him almost liked the idea, but in reality. “Jon, where did you get that thing?”

“It doesn’t matter now. And no, it should be forever. Just—well, let’s get you warm first. Then we can deal with it.”

Martin recognized when he was being diverted, particularly since Jon wasn’t all that subtle in the first place. But he did have a point, and it was a point Martin found himself rather loath to argue with, when Jon’s fingers were inching carefully along his thigh.

“Okay. Then—then get me warm. Touch me. Like—” Christ, he felt ridiculous. But if Jon was going to try and play it up for him, then surely he had to join in? “Like only you can. Like no one else ever will again.” Maybe it did sound like something out of a bad romance novel. But it was also true.

“Fuck, Martin.” Jon’s hand finally moved those last few inches, wrapping around Martin’s cock.

The shock was immediate, too much for Martin to keep his promise as he jerked into Jon’s loose grip. Distantly, he was aware of Jon rolling on top of him, his hand still around Martin’s cock, now crushed against the bed. It didn’t even matter that Jon wasn’t moving his hand, wasn’t stroking him, that the position was horribly uncomfortable. Because every nerve in his cock was on fire, sparking and spurting on the bed as he writhed under Jon’s slim form.

Jon’s teeth dug into the meat of his shoulder, and as Martin’s muscles spasmed; he could feel Jon’s cock throbbing inside him, the small jerks of his hips. And he felt somehow even warmer, flooded with a heady heat as they both started to still, and Jon carefully maneuvered them both back on their sides.

Martin almost felt disappointed, even realizing that he’d likely regret Jon lying on top of him long term. The weight was comforting. Anchoring, keeping him in place, stopping him from drifting into the endless mist that even now he could see clinging at the corners of his vision.

But his regret didn’t last, as Jon slung an arm over his chest and shifted closer, making Martin gasp as Jon’s still hard cock rubbed inside his oversensitive hole, grazing his prostate. He jumped, but Jon held fast, lips pressed to the mark he’d bitten into Martin’s shoulder.

“You—” Why was it so hard to say it, when Jon had literally just magically fucked him? But then, they’d not have the chance to talk past the awkwardness, had they. He lifted his hand to trace along Jon’s sweat damp forearm. “You’re still…”

“Yes, it’s—it’s how it works.” He sighed, pressing his cheek to Martin’s back. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. Take care of you.”

And Martin was tired. Of fighting, and being the one to act, and plan, and hold himself at a distance all while making sure other people were safe, were cared for. And now Jon—Jon had saved him. Once before, and now. Warm and here and holding back the chill waves that threatened to overtake him.

“Okay.” He didn’t think the problem would just go away. But for now—

He relaxed against Jon, and drifted into the softer sparks after afterglow, and let Jon keep him warm.


End file.
